


Since You Ask Me for a Tale of Magic

by starfishstar



Category: John Finnemore's Souvenir Programme
Genre: Gen, okay maybe not actually that stealthy, stealth Cabin Pressure references, stealth crossover with an unrelated fandom, stealth everything references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-09-01 11:18:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16764106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starfishstar/pseuds/starfishstar
Summary: Well, since you ask me for a tale of magic, I do have one account you may find…enchanting.





	Since You Ask Me for a Tale of Magic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Calliatra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calliatra/gifts).



> Dear Calliatra, I was so delighted to be matched with you; we share at least two fandoms and clearly also a ton of interests, and you had SO many fun prompts! My “official” gift to you is the Penguin Diplomacy fic, but for some reason first my brain dashed off this absurdity, which I hope you enjoy. 
> 
> This story sounds better if you imagine it in John Finnemore’s voice, but then, you knew that already. :-)
> 
> (With apologies to everyone else in the world, because this doesn’t make a lot of sense unless you avidly follow John Finnemore’s work. Possibly it may not make a lot of sense even if you do!)
> 
> Thank you to the kind, delightful and funny [SCFrankles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SCFrankles/pseuds/SCFrankles) for beta-reading.

Well, since you ask me for a tale of magic, I do have one account you may find…enchanting.

It all began long ago, though not so long ago as to be in black-and-white times. I was on my way to interview for a position with the manufacturing firm Mulligan’s Drills, although naturally by “interview for a position” I do not mean that I would be engaging in any sort of manual labour. No, my position with the firm would be to invest a great deal of money in their business, and then to lean back in my chair looking smug.

I had intended to catch the 10.53 from King’s Cross, but was delayed by an encounter with a porter who made the mistake of asking me if I knew any stories, and thus I arrived late, missing my train.

Looking about for alternative transport, my eyes met with a curious sight. Where I stood between Platforms 9 and 10, individuals appeared to be walking straight into a brick wall and disappearing.

This was obviously one of those new-fangled tricks with mirrors and lights, and as I am quite the connoisseur of new-fangled things, I stepped closer to investigate. 

As I did so, I accidentally caught the hem of a ginger-haired lad wearing long robes, and by the time I had disentangled myself, I had already passed through the illusion. A pity, since I had wanted to see how the trick was done.

But never mind, for there before me I beheld an even more enchanting sight! A crimson steam engine stood at the ready, puffing smoke and making a picturesque sight. It was almost like something out of a storybook, although since I was there, obviously it wasn’t.

Intrigued, I stepped aboard.

Curiously, many of the passengers appeared to be in fancy dress. Clearly they were en route to some sort of theme party, if I’m any judge of fashion. Although, as immediately afterwards I heard two passengers discussing the boarding school that was their destination, apparently I am not.

I hadn’t known to anticipate fancy dress. Casting about for some suitable impromptu disguise for myself, happily I called to mind a successful stratagem I had once used in the aid of a young lady who turned out not, after all, to be the heiress to an icing-sugar fortune. Without delay, I donned my bathing trunks, thus casting myself in the role of a man in search of the train swimming pool.

In this way expertly camouflaged amongst the other passengers – most of whom were, I may have neglected to mention, youngsters and dressed in long, dark robes – I settled in to enjoy my travels, as the train rattled northwards.

Of the journey itself, I needn’t tell you much. Aside from the occasional owl hooting or frog hopping about the corridor, little of interest happened.

Upon arrival, we rode from the station in comfortable carriages, although since dark had fallen, I did not see what sort of horses pulled them. Our destination, as it transpired, was not merely a school but in fact a castle, a great imposing edifice of stone glowering down from the top of a cliff as if to say, “You do realise you’ve completely missed your appointment at that drill-making company by now.”

A castle as a school! I considered this development, in a word, brilliant.

Once all had arrived inside, there was a great deal of bustling about, and then everyone assembled in a great hall – by which I mean that it was a very nice place, and also that it was enormous. Throughout the room candles seemed to hang suspended in mid-air, very cleverly done, I couldn’t see the wires that held them up at all.

There followed a rather tedious ceremony I needn’t describe to you in detail, concerned as it was with following the school’s own particular traditions for dividing students into houses, and then we tucked into our repast.

Although I was not officially one of this company, I was able to find a seat at one of the long tables, and I enjoyed my meal unmolested, which as you well know is an old-fashioned word for “no one bothered me”. Although I did draw the occasional glance on account of my bathing trunks.

After the meal, I thought to have a look around the castle. I wandered any number of corridors lined with moving picture screens disguised quite cunningly within ornate picture frames, to look as though they were paintings. Glancing out one window, I spotted a lawn adorned with several hoops on tall poles. I wondered if this might be a version of my own beloved pastime, eagling, and resolved that if I visited this place again I should bring my eagling boots.

Presently, I came across a small grouping of people standing together in the corridor. They made for a rather peculiar assembly, for they all appeared to be transparent. _Ghosts!_ might say the untrained eye. But I hope I do not boast when I say that I knew better.

“Oho!” cried I, approaching these pearlescent personages. “What have we here? I believe I have encountered such a case as this before. Are you not some of the castle’s servants, disguising yourselves as figures of the undead in order to hoodwink the gullible master of the house? But never mind, never mind,” said I, with a nod and a wink to each of them, “You need never fear that I shall be the one to unmask your ruse. Carry on, chaps!”

They looked surprisingly affronted at this, particularly one fellow with a big ruff around his neck. But just as he was about to speak, his head flopped to one side, as if it had been almost entirely severed at the neck. This was the most impressive special effect I had seen yet.

“Capital!” I exclaimed. “Although on reflection, perhaps I ought rather to have said: un-capital, or even de-capital. I mean to say, excellent work, my good man. You’re sure to have them all fooled, with a disguise so very realistic as this.” I gave the amusing little band a cheerful wave and continued on my way.

As I turned a corner, my progress was arrested by a very stern woman in a tall and pointy hat, who placed herself directly in my path. A hint of tartan could be seen beneath her robes, which were fastened with a pin in the shape of a thistle. In her hand she carried a volume of Robert Burns poems, out of which peeked a bookmark bearing the saltire. All of this caused me to wonder if she might possibly be Scottish.

Although most likely she too was simply in fancy dress.

The be-hatted, be-tartaned woman stared down her nose at me, with a gaze as pointed as her hat and as sharp as her thistle pin. “Come with me, sir,” said she, in a voice that called to mind a film actress with a name particularly unsuited to show business.

She led me to an office whose walls were lined with more of those clever moving-picture paintings. “I’m not sure how you came to be here, but I think it’s time we returned you home,” said the quite-possibly-but-not-definitely-Scottish woman, in a stern tone.

“Yes, well, I came up on the train, don’t you see,” I began, “so I suppose if you don’t mind I’ll just pop back down to the station –”

But even as I spoke, she stepped closer to a fire that crackled merrily in the grate, and motioned for me to follow. Intrigued, I approached. Were we going to roast crumpets? I was indeed feeling a bit peckish, after my day of travels. 

She took a bit of powder and threw it on the fire. “This way, now, this way,” she said briskly. “Yes, that’s right, into the fire, if you don’t mind.”

As I followed these extraordinary directions, I caught a last glimpse of the woman, as she picked up some small bit of wood from her desk and waved it in my direction. And then I saw no more, for I confess I became quite dizzy for a moment, almost as if I were spinning round and round inside the chimney, or perhaps even round and round inside many chimneys.

This, too, was an impressive bit of trickery, for by all appearances when I stepped out of the fire once more, I was no longer in a professor’s office, but in a London pub. And what’s more, I retained absolutely no recollection of the events of the preceding hours.

How then, you may ask, am I telling this story?

To be honest, I haven’t a clue. And surely you must admit that this curious fact is the sole element which renders an otherwise mundane tale, an account of mere clever tricks and stage mechanics, _magical_.

Good night!


End file.
